Remember the Radio Show?
by Beechwood0708
Summary: A series of songfics, all different genres, situations etc etc. Each one will be completely different to the others.
1. When You Were Young

First, thanks for all the feedback I got on my songfic idea. As you can probably see by now, unless you have visual impairments, I have decided to go through with it. I have four more after this one, and any requests are more than welcome. All of them will probably be completely unrelated, and not related to any of my other fics.

So, please enjoy my first effort. It is nice and angsty, but expect fluff, oddness, and some more angst later.

Disclaimer: The Mighty Boosh is owned by Julian Barratt and Noel Fielding. The song 'When You Were Young' is owned by the Killers.

Gosh, that was the dullest disclaimer I've ever written.

* * *

When You Were Young

_You sit there in your heartache,  
Waiting on some beautiful boy to  
To save you from your old ways.  
You play forgiveness,  
Watch him now, here he comes._

Howard is leaning on a wall, empty-handed, across the room from the bar. He doesn't want to get too close to it; he's not drinking tonight. Or so he tells himself. He's told himself that many nights before, but he tends to find himself letting go as the evenings wear on, drinking just a little, and then more and more. He wants to cut down. He knows he drinks too much.

Vince is dancing. Howard can just see him in the darkness blocked in by neon lights, hips swinging, knees bending as he gets down to the floor at her feet and back up, arms encircling around her. Howard wonders if he's seen her before; perhaps he's even met her. He doesn't know. Vince sees too many girls. Some of them know he's screwing countless others besides them, but most of them don't. Vince doesn't seem to see a problem with this.

He watches Vince without moving. Had he moved, he would have moved around Vince. Vince is his axis, the sole recipient of the attention he gives too much of, the thought and reflection that intertwines itself with the young man's body, his mind, his thoughts and desires. He watches Vince's hips, his arms, his legs, his waist, his feet. His cock, which has gradually crept closer and closer to the woman's physical being. Like Vince is his axis, she is Vince's. Every movement he makes revolves around her. Every swing of the hips, every graceful decent to the floor, every turn and flick of the arms, every quick look and jerk of the head is built around her, and her alone.

As for Vince's thoughts, Howard doesn't know. It's possible that they too revolve around this woman, but Howard doubts it. What Vince's thoughts are remains a mystery to him, but the chasing he does, his lack of regard for affection or sweetness, his need for raw, hindrance-free sex leads Howard to believe that consideration of any part of the woman besides her body is of no importance to him.

She is far more graceless than he is. She moves to the beat, but he seems to move around it. Almost like he doesn't follow it; it follows him, and he can bend it to his will, to accommodate this move or that, to allow him to seduce her the way he wants. He is fluid, elegant and smooth. Howard wonders where he learned to dance like that. But this sort of dancing is more felt than learned. You have to be it, not think it. Vince doesn't think about much. He probably doesn't even know what a beautiful dancer he is.

He breaks away from Vince, severing the link to his axis. He heads for the bar, knowing he would have given up eventually anyway. A bottle would be best. Just beer. One unit, or some such tiny amount. But it won't happen. Double vodka. What mixer? Coke, just because he can't be bothered to say anything else. Downed. Another. Downed. Another.

He turns back to Vince, taking this one a little slower. He sips. Vince grinds. He sips.

Vince is coming over, his woman behind him, with a look on his face that says he wants to go. Howard would like to stay. It's quite early; he has only just started drinking, is only on his third double and doesn't feel anywhere near drunk enough. But when Vince goes, he has to go. This is a party thrown by one of Vince's friends, not his, and Howard's not even entirely sure what he's doing there in the first place, so the idea of him staying when Vince has gone is out of the question. He finishes the last of his drink, and follows Vince and his woman from the room. They have already gone.

_He doesn't look a thing like Jesus  
But he talks like a gentleman,  
Like you imagined when you were young._

He walks a few paces behind them, deliberately slowing himself to make up for the slow speed Vince and his mate are forced to take by their high heels. He doesn't want to walk too close to them. Because the closer you get, the more it feels like you don't really exist.

He catches snatches of words. Pretty words. Flattering words. Compliments that may be meant, promises that are sure to be broken.

Movements; an arm round the waist, keeping a respectable upward distance. A touch of the hand that slowly comes closer into a clasp. A kiss from glossed lips to unblemished knuckles, on the hands, the wrists, all the way up the arm to the shoulder, to the neck.

Eloquent, charming, alluring.

Howard is almost jealous of the woman receiving these words. Why should a stranger who Vince will most likely never see again, however much she wants him to, be graced with these words when Howard himself never hears so much as a breath?

But at the same time he revels in it. He needs it, if he's honest. Because it's been so long he has almost forgotten that Vince has a voice. Sadly he remembers exchanges, conversations. Long talks about nothing, no meaning, no point, but which were everything to him. And everything to Vince too, at the time. Songs passing straight from the mind to the mouth, half a meaning, but which meant so much. A small, smiling boy, so much younger than his age, naïve, sweet, simple, open. A face that looked up at him, right up. He doesn't do that any more. It might be that his heels have gotten bigger, or perhaps Howard has just shrunk somehow, but he can't remember the last time he saw Vince looking up to him. He knows Vince's eyes are big, but he struggles now to recall when they stopped looking at him, so wide with admiration, with love.

He spoke different words then. Simpler words. He was never eloquent, his phrasing was easy and honest, whether he said it with sadness pulling at his face or a coy smile spreading to his eyes and his soul.

He always wanted to teach that boy to speak like a leader. Like a politician, or a poet, or a lawyer, or a spin doctor. Like someone whose words would be heard. Howard wasn't always sure he could do this himself, but whether or not he could, he always felt that desire to try, to impart some knowledge to the boy. To make him into a man.

And now that he is a man, now that he can speak like someone the world needs to listen to, taught not by Howard but by some other unknowable source, anonymous as everyone who associates with Vince these days, he has no more time for Howard. Words can get you anything, and Vince now realises this. Words can get you sex. Words can get you adoration. Words can get you the undying and unconditional love of people far too beautiful for the eyes of lesser mortals to see, and words can make them inferior, position you above them. Words can give you even the most wonderful of people, the most devoted and loving and beautiful and shining people, and make them yours to use and abuse and cast away wantonly as you see fit.

People like this woman. Howard wonders if he'll ever see her again. He doubts it.

He wonders how much of his life Vince has acted. Was he playing dumb back then, because he thought someone, Howard maybe, or someone else, thought it was cute? Is he playing smart now, because he knows he is older, and not that adorable child he had been before, and he needs to grow and become intelligent to attract those he lusts after to him? Or maybe he has always been this clever. Maybe this is the true Vince; this cold, userous thief of hearts, who shares his words only with the most unfortunate. They weren't unfortunate before they met him, but now that they have, there are none more unfortunate than they are.

Maybe it is now, not then, that he is finally being honest with himself.

_They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet.  
You don't have to drink right now,  
But you can dip your feet  
Every once in a little while._

Vince and his woman reach the front door first, and he lets them both in, and he leaves it hanging open for Howard. Without a glance, he leads her to his bedroom and closes the door, leaving Howard to lock the front door for the night. He looks over at the bedroom door, sealed off, an impenetrable, a forbidden hold where he is not permitted to wander, even in thought.

He leaves it unentered, and goes to the kitchen instead. A small cupboard, one of the highest, full of old tins of food and dried, pre-packaged ready meals that will never be eaten. He pushes them aside. This is where he keeps the drinks, out of the way, and with things obstructing them, so he can't just reach out and grab them. He used to keep alcohol in his bedroom, a special bottle of vodka or whisky someone had bought him as a present, but he doesn't trust himself to do that any more. A bottle doesn't last him a month any more. A bottle lasts days now. One day, if he's feeling particularly sorry for himself.

The bulky dissuasions out of the way, he looks through the bottles behind. Stolichnaya vodka, a particular favourite of his. There isn't much left, just a little in the bottom of the bottle, but he feels down, and decides he deserves to finish it tonight.

What else? Gin? No, he doesn't feel like something so dry tonight.

Cognac, yes, that will do. Still full.

He takes the bottles to his bedroom. Hopefully he will be ready to pass out by the time he finishes them, because he doesn't want to have to get up for more when they are gone. He needs to be completely gone tonight. Stopping any earlier than the coma of drunkenness is unacceptable. But he knows that once these two bottles have been finished, he will not be able to make his way back to the cupboard for more.

Maybe he should have brought an extra bottle into the room with him, just in case.

No. If he did that, he'd start drinking in the morning. That's something he doesn't need.

He pours the last of his vodka into a glass. He doesn't drink from the bottle. He has some self-respect left. He sips it, savouring. He wants to enjoy it while he's still relatively sober. He doesn't mind so much about the cognac. As long as it is just sweet enough, Howard doesn't care what he drinks once he reaches a certain point. Thinking about this, he feels he has let himself down.

He drinks more, and listens.

He may not be able to go into Vince's bedroom, but the occurrences of Vince's bedroom may come to him. He hears groaning and panting and ecstatic screaming as they mate. They are not making love, as there is no emotional connection there. She may have one, but Howard fears that Vince may now be incapable of this. They are not having sex, as having sex is an altogether more human act, an acknowledgement of each other and an enjoyment of company and connection. They are not even doing it, as this implies a casual meeting, something no one cares for or considers again. This is primal, needed, urgent, yet with no lasting link and no regard to the other, at least, not from him anyway. This is animal, unthinking. They are mating.

Howard finishes his Stolichnaya. He lies back, empty glass in one hand, and sighs up at the ceiling. He reaches for his cognac, and sits up to pour. Fuck it, he thinks. He can't be bothered with the glass any more. He pushes the bottle to his lips and swigs deeply, letting the strong taste wash down him.

He knew he would give up eventually. Oh well. It has been a few days since the last time, and it will doubtless be days before the next. He may as well make the most of it.

He drinks and drinks, long, slow, deep, pushing out the sounds of now, of the mating in the room next door.

_And sometimes you close your eyes  
And see the place where you used to live  
When you were young._

Howard knows he is dreaming. Or is he? Is it a dream, or is it a memory? This whole phase in his life was so bright and strange, so beautifully unreal, he can never tell what actually happened and what was created by his own imagination in lonely nights any more.

In the dream, he is outside in the sunshine, sitting on a bench. He is fairly certain this is a memory, made real again by drink, hypnogogia and an overactive mind. Yes, this really happened. He can't put a date to it, but he remembers every detail. He knows what will happen before it happens, and he looks forward to each new moment.

Vince approached him, a huge grin on his face, unmarred by makeup or decadence.

"How are they?" Howard asked.

"They're beautiful," Vince gushed. The new baby tigers had been eagerly anticipated by the zoo since their conception, and in the few days before the birth, they were all anyone had been talking about. Vince sat down next to Howard, eyes gazing up at the sky, smile still plastered over his face. "All cuddling up to each other and nuzzling their mama."

Howard looked at the pure rapture on the boy's face, his childlike joy at the miracle of life, and couldn't help but grin himself. Vince's wide-eyed elation was infectious. He was an odd combination; naïve yet experienced. Howard tended not to think about Vince having sex on a regular basis, but he always seemed to Howard to be the only sort of person who can truly have sex in its most pure, most beautiful form. And the reason for that was simply because he was unable to appreciate the purity of the act he committed. Vince didn't seem to have any idea of the links between sex and purity, or between sex and decadence. To him, sex must be an act of pure affection and love, something sweet to be shared with someone special. Not even a lover, perhaps even a special friend he could allow so close to him, someone with whom a deep bond didn't need to be cemented, but would be anyway.

Sometimes Howard dreamed of sex like that, but he knew he could never have it, because he was able to conceive of it.

Vince leaned over to rest his head on Howard's shoulder, and Howard instinctively moved his arm out of the way to accommodate him. He looked down, and saw Vince looking up at him, big blue eyes catching the sunlight, still smiling.

"You nancy," Howard laughed, smiling back.

"Brute," Vince giggled back.

The mating has stopped in the next room. It suddenly dawns on Howard that if he dies now, he will die happy, because he has gone back in time. He is somewhere where Vince has never degraded himself and those who love him, and where he never will.

In the silence of sleep, a bird calls, the sound mingling in with growls and grunts, and the distant mewlings of newborn tigers.


	2. Objects in the RearView Mirror

Sorry for my lack of activity lately. I was in Paris, surrounded by sweet sweet gospel, and some hot jazz thrown in too. It was a wonderful few days. And i will catch up on all the updates (already done most of it, yay!)

Another offering, a little angst here, I think, but also some sweet sentiment and a big fat dollop of oddness. Enjoy.

The song is owned by Meat Loaf and Jim Steinman.

Objects in the Rear-View Mirror May Appear Closer than they Are

_The skies were pure and the fields were green  
And the sun was brighter than it's ever been,  
When I grew up with my best friend Kenny  
We were close as any brothers than you ever knew._

You started working at the Zooniverse before he did, you remember that much. Why he decided to tell that particular lie; that he took you out of school and brought you there, you're not really all that sure. You can understand his other lies, they all have reasons, that you picked up on as the years went by, as you learned to follow him, and to play this game that took over your life in the end, changed your history, changed everything.

You found it odd at first how close he was willing to get to you. Most people are so reserved, so physically formal, however relaxed they might try to appear in every other aspect of how they interact with you, but not him. He dived on you, it seemed, like he was looking for something, and he just happened to see it in you. You had such a hard time figuring it out at first, but then it just hit you, and it really was the most obvious thing in the world.

He just wanted a best friend.

He saw you, thought you looked nice and friendly, so he went in. And he never bothered with the warming-up stage, just went straight on in there and acted like you'd known each other since childhood.

Which, incidentally, he later maintained that you had.

But that doesn't matter, really, and you pretend it's true because you want to. You're close enough to have known each other that long. Hell, you were close enough to have known each other that long within two weeks of meeting each other. Maybe it's because you were so willing to pretend with him. Maybe you caught on the game fast, and he was attracted to that. Or maybe you just clicked. Who knows?

_But I can still recall the sting of all_

_The tears when he was gone.  
They said he crashed and burned, I know I'll never learn_

_Why any boy should die so young._

It came as a shock to learn the kid had died. That's something no one should have to deal with, especially not at eleven years old, that's just wrong.

But it did explain a lot. You found out about him when you were bored and randomly Googled his name, and you found out about that little boy from the town he came from, born the same year, went to the same school, lived in the same street. You went through his drawers that night, and you felt so bad about doing it, and you knew you wouldn't have dared do it if he'd been home at the time. And you found it, in the bottom drawer, underneath papers and poems and unhinged snatches of prose, worn and thumbed, a battered Polaroid of that little boy, smiling and grinning, with another child next to him who is unmistakeably him.

Yes, it explained a lot. They must have been close. So so close. Closer than you can usually get to a person without years of building on it. You'd have to miss that closeness. You couldn't just build up another one, because no one could make up for that relationship. It could never be the same again. Even that level of closeness, you can't just get it back. You'd be cold, and people would seem so far away. And you know because that's how you'd feel if something ever happened to him. You can never replace that kind of feeling unless you spend years and years waiting.

Except with you, he could.

_There are times I think I see him peeling out of the dark-  
I think he's right behind me now and he's gaining ground._

It's one thing to go through that once, but twice and life just wouldn't be worth living any more. So that was when you decided you would never ever leave him.

You know he worries. He doesn't know you know, because you won't let it show, because if you let it show then he'd know you know about the other little boy, the one he sees in you, the one he saw die.

You've been in plenty of situations in the real world, let alone the world he's made up for you, and one or the both of you could have died at any time. But you know he's always looking out for you. He wouldn't let you go, ever, because that would be like that boy dying all over again. He'll always be there when you need him, and you're ashamed to say that sometimes you still need to remind yourself of that.

But then you think how much it would hurt you if he went, and you know that that's exactly how he feels about you, only he's seen it happen before so he knows what it's like.

You just think that, and you know how much you love him, how he'd never leave you, and how, when it comes down to it, you're right there for him too.

It must hurt sometimes, you wonder, for him to always be looking out for you like that, to be living in fear that you might not always be there, but you look in his eyes, his funny little eyes, and you know he wouldn't give it up for the world.

_There were endless winters and the dreams would freeze,  
Nowhere to hide and no leaves on the trees,  
And my father's eyes were blank as he hit me again and again and again._

He never told you he didn't get on with his father. He never really told you anything about his father. He told you his father was a geography teacher up in Leeds, and you just assumed they got on fine.

It never occurred to you that they don't speak. That he never calls, or his father never calls him. You have no idea how he knows his father is still even alive.

It sickened you when you found out. Fathers shouldn't do that to their sons. It makes you happy, in some strange way, that you never knew yours.

And it confuses you how a man like Bryan Ferry, with no physical relation to you could have loved you the way he did, when back before you knew him he was treated so terribly by his own flesh-and-blood father.

You still wonder sometimes why he never made up some new addition to your pretend game because of this. He's told so many lies; that you were childhood friends, that he steered your life in the direction it's going in now, so why couldn't he lie about this, and say that he had had a proper loving father, and a happy adolescence. Maybe if he did that, he wouldn't look so haunted when you watch him sitting in his room through the crack of the door at night when he thinks he's alone. When you want to go in and hold him so badly, but you can't because you can't let him know you were watching. Underneath the pretending, there's another, deeper level of pretending. He pretends he's recovered from everything he's been through, and you pretend you don't know he hasn't. You can't end this pretence. You don't know how just yet.

But you can't help watching him. He's fascinating. His deep and intricate lies and stories, the persona he adopts to make them all ring true.

The chinks in the armour, the cracks he thinks he's never showed you.

Maybe if he pretended he'd had a loving father, he wouldn't need to pretend any more. But then if he didn't need to pretend he wouldn't be pretending that he'd had a loving father and would that start everything again? He wouldn't need to pretend and so the pretence that was keeping him from pretending would be lost and all his reasons to pretend would all come flooding back and if he couldn't pretend still he'd have to face them defenceless, or he'd start pretending again maybe and…

Maybe if he pretended he's had a loving father, he wouldn't need to pretend anything else any more.

But then, and you feel so guilty for thinking it, you're glad he pretends, because that was why he took to you so quickly.

But you don't think that for very long because it's like being glad his father did the things he did to him.

_I know I still believe he'd never let me leave, I had to run away alone._

But maybe it doesn't even matter any more. The fact is, his father's not there any more, and you live your lives pretending, so why bother wondering how it'd be like otherwise? You love him, yes, so why think about changing things? What's past is past.

You know it was his choice to have it this way. Everything you've ever done was his choice. He created your world, he created your memories. He's the one who showed you how the moon talks, and who first realised the animals were talking back, but only to you. He chose you, and chose to make you special.

And if anyone tried to stop him, he would never let them.

You've heard of this father; dominating, controlling, possessive. You don't recall how you heard; certainly not from him, though you can't think of any other possible source, but you heard the stories. And it didn't sound like he would have cast him out. It sounded like he would have kept holding on to him and dragging him back, enslaving him.

So you knew he had chosen his life.

He had chosen to escape, to leave behind everything he had ever known and go into something strange and unfamiliar, with no one by his side. It must have been a daunting new world to go into so alone, but he chose to do it. To find something new.

And he found you.

You're so glad he found you.

_There was a beauty living on the edge of town.  
She always put the top up and the hammer down,  
And she taught me everything I'll ever know  
About the mystery and the muscle of love._

You know you weren't the first person he found. You know you couldn't be, because he came to you as a sad man, but a free man. And you can't just walk out of abuse and pain, just like that. Even when you've walked away from the pain itself, you can't walk free. You have to be rescued. That was what he chose. To be rescued.

He told you so much about her at first. She was a Russian widow, beautiful and thoughtful and intelligent and free. He used to sit with you at night and talk and talk for hours about her; how she had looked in the mornings, how she looked at night, how she looked next to him in the front seat of a convertible, how she looked from on top of him in the back seat of a convertible. How she had taken him in and taken him away.

_She used her body just like a bandage, she used my body just like a wound.  
I'll probably never know where she disappeared,_

_But I can see her rising up out of the back seat now just like an angel rising up from the tomb._

Later on, he began to talk about her like she was there, now, outside the door of the little hut, talking to someone they called a friend. He asked if she had come and called for him, but she never did.

And then she began to appear, and you think maybe you even saw her, as clearly as he did. She liked you, but she never looked at him, never spoke of him, never remembered him. You hated to watch him so sad, but you knew it had to be this way. If he was going to bring the game so close to real life, he would have to suffer in is own way. Because how could he ever love her if she wasn't really there? It was an unspoken agreement between the two of you. She liked you, not him; you pretended as best you could, he suffered for the chance to think for a while that she might really be there.

You had to make her cold, and unloving, but you did your best to make him happy, imagining ways to bring his name to her lips, because all the most elaborate and complicated of imaginings were worth it to see him smile. He didn't do it enough, though, when you had just met him, he had reasons to be sad.

You were grateful to her, really, the woman you never met, because she made him who he was, she saved him, and she brought him to you.

He never even told you her first name.

_But it was long ago and it was far away, oh God it seems so very far,  
And if life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car._

In time, she disappeared from your lives like so many other characters and so many other games. You suppose he must have moved on, realised she was never coming back and he would never see her in the flesh again. That she was gone, like his father was gone and the little boy who died was gone.

_And objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are._

He's still got you. You'll pretend with him as long as he still wants to pretend. Sometimes you take him for granted, but you do your best. Sometimes you almost shun him, but you always come back.

You will always come back.

He's already lost his best childhood friend, his father, and the one love of his life. You won't let him lose you. You'll be there forever, whatever happens to try and stop you.

It doesn't matter what you pretend, about your past, about his past, about anything.

Because you're his present. And you're going to be his future.


	3. Lovesong

Wow, I haven't updated these for a while. Sorry about that. It's just i didn't want to do a load of angsty focs all together, an this was the natural coice to have next, and fluff doesn't really come too easily to me. I suppose it's understandable with this being quite a melancholy song, but it always wanted to come out dark fluff, lke where one of them's dead, or in prison, or something like that. And I wanted it to be nice fluff. I've also kept it pretty much platonic, but feel free to read slash into there if you like.

This is my first attempt at first person fanfic; at first I was thinking displaced third person or second person, but I've used both of those already and i don't want it to all get to samey with the playing with form. First person's a lot harder to do in fanfic than in original fiction too, because you really hae to get the character right, whch is obviously much easier if you've created the character yourself. Vince's voice was a lot harder to get than Howard's, but I hope I've got them both down alright.

So yeah, this is Lovesong, the song I want played at my wedding and my funeral. If you have never heard this song, you have never lived. And if you've seen the video (I kept playing it over and over again as i was writing), how cute are Robert's eyes right at the end?

This fic contains a sort of continuation to the Secret History of Howard Moon storyline, and also references that fic, but if you haven't read it, it pretty much fills in what you need to know, I think. Also contains some drunkspeak, which I hope os okay.

It also contains some of my own studenty type loves- limoncello is _the_ drink of drinks, and rose wine straight from the bottle is a beautiful thing. Oh yeah, this fic pretty much condones heavy drinking. Erm... know your limits. Mine is nowhere near as heavyweight as theirs.

Disclaimer: Lovesong is owned by the Cure.

Lovesong

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am home again._

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am whole again._

There was this one day, nothing special; I was just out, walking in the park, like I don't do very often any more. Howard had been doing my head in, I think, and I'd skived off working in the shop to get away from him. I must have been doing his head in as much as he was doing mine in, I suppose, but I never really thought about that. It never really makes much of a difference, in the end, does it.

Anyway, yeah, I was just walking through this park, looking at birds and stuff, and- well, you know, it's a beautiful place, ain't it, when you look at it. All the trees, and the pond with the sun shining on it. It was June, and everything looked really bright. There were these doves and pigeons and all them all chasing each other, wanting to have it off, butterflies randomly appearing in front of you, teenagers that had skived off school getting off on the benches. It was a nice day. I was enjoying myself.

And I met this squirrel, said his name was Phillip. Anyway, I wasn't in a hurry, it was a nice day, we got chatting. I told him about whatever it was Howard had done to get on my nerves that day, can't even remember what it was, and the last gig I did and things like that, and then he started telling me about this new place he'd got in an elm further down the park, he was gonna do it up with some oak-leaf wall hangings, all art nouveau, and how they'd needed a bigger pad 'cause his missus was expecting little ones. And I said I might come round and see them sometime when they were born, they sounded well cute.

But he said he had to get back because it was nearly dinner time and Lucy was eating for five, so I let him go and sat around a bit. It was nice, getting back with the animal kingdom again. I haven't really met many animals- well, except for Bollo, but he doesn't count, he speaks English- since I left the zoo, and I'd almost forgot how well we usually get on. I almost felt like picking up a nice dove, talking her away from the attentions of those horny man-doves and bringing her back to the flat to watch 'Desperate Housewives' or something. And then I thought the shop'd probably be closing and I should get back.

And then there was this bang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I shot up from the bench, and I could hear laughing, and there was this scumbag in a hoodie and a baseball cap laughing his head off with this BB gun or something, and I looked down at the ground, and Phillip was just lying there, on his back, his little eyes all glazed, dead.

I snapped. I fucking snapped, and I ran at this kid shooting my mouth off. And guess what? Guess what? He fucking shot me. He missed, thank god, but I thought I'd better not stick around, so I went home, and I couldn't believe it. That someone could just do that, just see an animal, a living being in his own right, and just shoot him dead and laugh. It made me sick, it really did.

I stormed in and shut myself in my room, I was that upset. No, I wasn't upset; I was angry. I was fucking furious. If Bryan Ferry had been there, he'd never have let that happen. He'd have spotted the gun and chased the kid to Timbuktu and back, honestly. Or if he was too late, he wouldn't have run off. He'd have got shot. He'd have got shot multiple times and still come at this kid, and then chased him to Timbuktu and back while he bled half to death, and he'd have got the kid found guilty of murder in a court of law, and then he'd have come back and conducted the funeral. Oh, yeah, and at some point he'd have gone to hospital.

Bryan Ferry's done a lot for me. He's made me who I am, I reckon. I miss him sometimes. I know he wasn't always there, but when we were together in the forest, he always used to play with me, and teach me things. We used to have great times. I must have been a nightmare; I was always up a tree, or in a river, or somewhere he'd told me not to be. And when he wasn't there, he'd leave me with the animals, and they'd let me get away with murder.

I miss that forest. Not just the good times; the place itself. And the way things were. There was so little negativity there; it was like living in a dream. Death was a sad occasion there. It was a tragedy. It was never a laugh. It was never a game. Idyllic, I think that's the word.

I miss that forest. I wish I was back there now.

And then there was a knock on the door.

"Vince, are you alright in there?"

He sounded a bit nervous, bless him. I suppose he thought I was in a mood. I could almost sort of feel him, hovering there outside the door, looking all worried.

"Yeah, I'm alright," I called back out to him.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

He came in, and he just stood there and looked at me for a second. He saw I was still a bit blue, and I saw him get a bit scared, 'cause I don't do blue. I do bright electric pink and sunshine, but I still get blue, sometimes. He's the only one who's allowed to see it, just like he's the only person who's allowed to see me when I haven't done my roots, or to see me in my underwear. He's the only one I trust.

He came up to me, and sat on the bed next to me, and I could see him hesitate. He's always had that touching phobia, and I don't think it'll ever go away, but he pushes it aside for me, sometimes, when I really need it. So he put his arms round me and just started rubbing my shoulders with his thumbs. He wasn't doing much, but it felt nice still, and I know it must have been hard for him to get that close. I couldn't help but lean back on him, and sometimes when I do that I can tell when he's gonna shove me away and tell me I've gone too far and come too close. But I knew this time he wouldn't.

He leaned into me too and gave me a cuddle.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

So I told him, about Phillip the squirrel and the kid with the BB gun, and how it just got to me. And I didn't need to tell him the rest. I knew that he could just tell. He can always tell.

So he just sat there, and he kept cuddling me, even though he doesn't like it, and he didn't say anything, 'cause he knew there was nothing he could say.

And then, it sort of didn't feel like it mattered any more. I mean, of course it mattered, about Phillip and everything, but everything else. It didn't matter.

We made our own perfect world right where we are. He completed me.

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am young again._

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am fun again._

I was studying my face in the mirror, tracing each line of age from my eyes, down my cheeks, at my mouth. There were so many. How had they got there? They came on so quickly. Had there even been that many there yesterday? I traced them down, pulling my face back and seeing the botched attempt at cosmetic surgery before it had even happened.

"What you doing?" he asked from behind me, where he was lying on the back of the sofa. How he could possibly be comfortable in that position is beyond me. It's hardly wide enough, even for him, and his vertebrae must have been digging right in. "You look like Joan Rivers."

"Joan Rivers is a witty intelligent woman," I retorted, watching his reflection behind my own. If I'm honest, I haven't got a clue how witty or intelligent Joan Rivers is; I just wanted to defend my reputation.

"Joan Rivers looks like she's been put together from different people's body parts."

"Well, thank you very much for comparing me to her."

He came and stood behind me, pressing his fingers to my face where I'd let my skin fall back into place.

"You look a lot better as you are."

I craned my head round and stared at him. It was odd. It wasn't like him to say something like that.

"I mean, you still look like a crab-eyed elephant crossed with a Shar Pei, but at least it's a start."

There he was again, back to normal. I couldn't stop myself from sighing as I caught my reflection again.

"Come on, it's not that bad," he said. Empty words. "I mean… who doesn't love Shar Peis?"

"I'm not a Shar Pei, Vince. Nor would I want to be. Dogs were meant to run wild and hunt, not to be pampered by image conscious socialites."

"Get out of town," he laughed. "Shar Peis were palace guards. They call them Chinese fighting dogs."

"Yeah, well…"

"Ha! I got you!"

He sashayed on back to the sofa and plonked himself down on it, grinning, proud of himself. I sighed again, and shuffled over and sat down next to him.

"Look, you alright?" he asked, dropping the grin as soon as he saw my face. I looked away. "You know I didn't mean it like that," he carried on. He was leaning towards me, and I could just see out of the corner of my eye one hand outstretched towards me, but hovering a few inches away. I turned back a little. He must really be sorry if he's actually respecting my boundaries for once.

"Come on," he said, changing his tone suddenly. "Let's get drunk."

"Is that your answer to everything?" I asked him, incredulous. "Life gets dull just for a moment, and you go and get off your face on alcohol?"

"Is it not yours?" he responded.

It was a fair point, actually.

"I don't feel like going to a club," I told him. Not like I was. Not like that.

"Well… we don't have to," he said. I looked at him. He smiled. "We could just find an off license, pick up some bottles, go wherever…"

"Getting pissed on the streets and passing out in a gutter? I don't think so, Vince."

"Come on Howard, it'll be fun." He put on his coyest smile and leaned in even closer, looking everything like a naughty child trying to convince another kid to come and explore the staff room at school while it was empty. "I can make it fun."

"I'm not getting trashed on the streets."

"Oh, Howard…"

"No."

"Howard…"

I didn't even respond.

"Howard… Howard… Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard. _Howard!_"

"Alright!"

He made this odd sound, a sort of squeal, which I assumed must be a good thing. Then he jumped from the seat and grabbed his jacket, then grabbed mine and flung it at me. "Come on then!" he cried, already half way through the door.

We found ourselves the off license just a couple of streets away, which is a pretty good one, really. I started browsing over twelve-packs, when he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me away.

"None of that," he chided. "Not strong enough."

He dragged me over to the spirits, where he started loading his arms with multicoloured bottles.

"Smirnoff!" he cried. "It's not a night without Smirnoff!"

It must not be; he had four different kinds of it.

I picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels, then looked around a bit before taking some Sambuca. I stood and waited for a bit, watching him hoard more and more bottles, and then caught my eye on some limoncello. "Here!" I called, waving it. "You'll like this."

"Cool," he said over his armful of bottles. "Grab it."

He staggered over to another aisle, and I followed him, shaking my head and wondering what he'd be like once he actually started drinking. I turned the corner into the aisle, and saw him picking up two bottles of rosé wine between his fingertips and scuttling over to the tills with them.

"You can't drink wine straight out of the bottle," I shouted at him.

"Course you can," he replied, dumping everything on the counter. "'Specially rosé."

I decided not to argue with him, and dropped my bottles on the counter with his. I almost burst a nerve when I saw how much everything came to, but he seemed to think nothing of it and paid for it all without saying a word.

As soon as we were out onto the street he was delving onto a bag and yanking open a bottle of Smirnoff Ice with his teeth and pouring it down his throat.

"'Elp yerself 'Oward," he told me through the bottle in his mouth, nudging the bag on the floor with his boot. Sighing, I reached into one of my own bags and pulled out the Jack Daniels, silently praising myself for being sensible enough to choose screw-top bottles instead of caps. I opened it and took a few swigs, deciding to take it slow. Unlike him, who was already more than half way through his first bottle.

"Come on, let's go down here," he said, leading me down into a random street. Why he wanted to go down here was beyond me. It was just a regular street in a normal, dull housing estate. Long rows of identical housed surrounded us, curtains covering pools of yellow light, and some of them were twitching.

"She's watching us," he told me, pointing with his bottle to a pushed aside curtain with a woman standing just behind. "Pull her a moonie."

"I'm not pulling a moonie," I objected. "If it means that much to you, you pull her a moonie."

"I don't pull moonies. My arse stays in my jeans where it belongs."

"Well so does mine."

We stood for a moment in silence, staring each other out. Eventually, he conceded. "Alright, look, I'll pull one if you do."

"No."

"Howard, come on," he whined. "When was the last time you dropped trou?"

"More recently than you did," I reminded him.

"Yeah but that's different," he insisted. "That was just you walking round the flat starkers again. This is a moonie, it'll be fun."

I could see he wasn't going to let it go. So I agreed.

"Alright then. But just this once."

"I knew you would," he grinned. "Okay, on three. One. Two. Three!"

In perfect synch, we dropped our trousers and bent over, giving her a full view. I waited a few moments, he gave her a cheeky little wiggle, and then we covered ourselves back up and turned round to see her with the phone in her hand.

"Shit, run, before she calls the pigs," he warned me, and we were off like a shot, lost in the heat of the moment. We ran down a few streets, sprinting full pelt. I saw him running with a bottle in his mouth, and tried it myself, but only managed to swallow a small mouthful before spilling whiskey all down my front.

I could feel my chest aching, and we slowed down and stopped in an alley meant for storing cars. By the time he stopped moving he was already starting on another bottle, and I had a feeling that if the night was going to go on like this then I would have to get very drunk very quickly. The Jack Daniels was over half gone, so I tipped it to my mouth and took quick burning swigs until I finished it.

"Did you just drink a whole bottle of JD to yourself?" he asked me. I showed him the bottle. "Wow, that is x-core."

I smiled. I knew he was quick on the road to being plastered, otherwise he'd never have said it, but all the same, I liked hearing it.

"Hey, look at me," he cried suddenly, almost begging me. He put a hand on his hip and took a long gulp from the bottle of wine in his hand. "I'm a student."

I couldn't help laughing. It was precious. He couldn't stop once I started, and still shaking with laughter he pushed a bottle of Archers into my hands. "Trust me," he slurred. "You'll love it."

"Whatever you say, little man," I replied. I took it off him and held the neck of the bottle out, and he wrenched the cap off with his teeth. I tipped it and poured some into his mouth, and he swallowed it like it was the elixir of life. Then I put it to my own lips and took a swig of my own. I had to admit, it was quite nice. Very sweet.

I drank as we walked. The stuff was easy to drink. It just sort of flowed down.

"Let's go for a drive," I heard him say behind me, his voice distorted by alcohol. "I'll even have a go. Howard, steal me a car."

"I can't steal you a car, little man, we'd get in trouble." I could hear myself starting to slur as well. It was quite a fascinating sound.

"Oh please," he begged. "Please, Howard, please."

"Alright," I said, pointing out of the alley back onto the street. "I'll steal you one of the ones down there."

He jumped on me and threw his arms round me, spilling the last of his wine over us both. I gently pushed him off and walked out of the alley, and he skipped along beside me.

"You're out of your head, aren't you?" I chuckled.

"Yeah!" he replied, grinning like a pointy retard.

"Here," I said, thrusting the last of the Archers at him. "Finish that."

I couldn't stand any more. It was just far too sweet. But he snatched it away from me and downed the lot in two seconds flat.

I got the Sambuca out of my carrier bag, opened it and drank as much as I could before I had to stop for air. He bashed into the side of me and held out his hands expectantly. I passed it to him, and he raised it to his mouth and suckled at the bottle like a babe in arms.

"Alright, you've had enough," I said, pulling it back from him and drinking down some more. He reached out his hands for it, and when I didn't surrender it, he tried to make a grab for it. But I just turned it away from him, spinning around as he tried to run round me to get it. I finished it, and passed him the empty bottle when I was done.

"Oh, ya bitch," he pouted, then swung his fist right into my arm.

"Oi!" I cried, pushing him back. "Watch the fists of fury, little man, or so help me, I will come at you."

"Oh will you?" he grinned.

"Yes, I will," I said. "I'll come at you like-"

"Like a Chinese fighting dog!"

I swatted him one round the head.

I realised we had come to the park. We don't come there often, and I could barely recognise the place in the dark. It looked quite nice though, with the moon shining on the pond. He got all excited, and broke the tranquillity immediately.

"Come on Howard, let's go and find the playground!"

I grabbed his arm to stop him running away, and got the limoncello out of the bag and waved it in his face.

"Be a good boy and you can have some of this," I told him, popping the cork and taking a small, quick gulp. I let out a cry at the strong taste, and a flock of birds fled from a nearby tree.

"Gimme some!" he demanded, stumbling as he threw himself at me and barely able to focus.

"No," I said, taking a longer drink. As soon as I removed the bottle from my mouth I staggered. But I still took some more.

I looked back at him, watching me intently, his eyes glazed. "Alright," I said. "Now you can try some."

I held the bottle out to him and he grabbed it from my hand, then pushed it into his mouth and coughed as he took too much at once.

"Strong, isn't it," I laughed, but he ignored me and carried on drinking, taking quick swigs now like I had done. "Like it?"

"Love it!" he hollered between gulps.

"Gimme it back," I requested, reaching out to him. He held onto it tightly, but I managed to prise it from his grasp and sucked from the bottle again.

He stood by me, watching eagerly as I neared the bottom of the bottle. Then he made a funny, wanting little noise, and he looked so damn cute I put my arm round his waist and held him up as he leaned back and drank the last of it, while I held the bottle for him.

"No more?" he asked, head still tilted back to receive.

"No more," I confirmed.

He groaned, about three octaves higher than usual. "Y'shoulda bought more," he whined, giving me a shove away from him.

A little too hard a shove.

"Li'l man, what'd I tell you?" I chided, grinning.

"I dunno. What d'you tell me?"

"Toldja I'd come at ya if you din't watch yer fists."

"Y'wun't…"

That was when he realised he was stood between my body and the pond.

"Oh no! Howard! Howard don't you dare! Howard!"

I ran at him, rugby tackled him and sent him straight in the pond.

Unfortunately, it didn't occur to me until after that this would also send me into the pond with him.

When I came up for air, my head felt a lot clearer.

Clearer than it had in a long time.

_Fly me to the moon._

When I get him drunk, we can do anything. We might just think it 'cause we're drunk, and that's what drunks think, but we're invincible. One night, when we were walking home wringing wet, I asked him to fly me to the moon. And he said he would, one day.

_However far away, I will always love you,_

_However long I stay, I will always love you._

My parents called. We haven't had any real contact since I ran away when I was sixteen. I don't even know how they found out where I was living. But now they want to meet me again. To find out what I'm doing with my life. I could hardly have turned them down, could I. I mean, they're my parents, and I haven't seen them in nearly twenty years.

They asked me to go back to Leeds, where they'd moved back thinking they could find me there, and stay with them. They said my sister, Ruth, would be there, with the baby, and she was apparently quite ecstatic to be seeing me. My parents told me she'd taken my disappearance pretty hard. She'd come back from Malaysia as soon as she'd heard, and almost didn't go back.

I knew I couldn't take him with me. He understood that, he didn't ask, but all the same I felt guilty for it. He made fun of me, telling me about all the parties he was going to while I was off chilling with northern wrinklies. I can tell he's going to miss me.

I don't like leaving him. Life just isn't the same without him and his perverted logic making sense of all the strange things. Or making the strange things. A satsuma's just a satsuma without him around. With him around, a satsuma's a missile waiting to be aimed at his sorry arse.

I closed up my suitcase. It was the smallest one I could find. I tried to shove everything into a rucksack, but it wasn't happening. I wanted to take as little as possible, but I didn't know how long I'd be. It was a bleak thought, not knowing how long I'd be without him.

I picked up the case and grabbed my jacket. He was sitting on the sofa reading one of his insufferable fashion magazines.

"I'll probably only be a few days," I told him, already on my way out of the door.

He nodded, looking nonchalant, but I could see the sadness inherent somewhere in his expression. Not his eyes, not his mouth, not his forehead, but somewhere on his face I could see it. I just couldn't figure out where.

"Bye, little man," I said.

"See ya, small eyes."

I shut myself out. I was going to miss him.

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am free again._

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am clean again._

He had been gone two days, and I was going out, to try and take my mind off it. I don't just go out that much any more really, now that we've started doing more gigs. I'm usually on the stage pulling shapes, not down on the dancefloor. So it's a nice change.

And it's not till I randomly look around that I realise it's gone eleven. Shit. And I didn't even look perfect yet.

It was okay though, I just needed a bit more eyeliner… no, that's too much. Needed to take it off and start again. That time I got it right. Or better, at least. Less likely to have fault found in it at a short distance.

Eyeshadow, just a little bit. Quite subtle. Too much? No, I think it's alright. But did the shade really go with my outfit? Perhaps it's just a few tones too light. Did I have something a bit deeper? I must have, somewhere…

That'll mean taking the eyeliner off too, or it'll smudge.

But surely only complete pedants would notice this. I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to take myself in like a stranger in a club would. Eyeshadow a bit too pale. Or is it? Was I only noticing it because I knew it was true?

It had gone eleven-thirty when I finally stopped debating with myself, and decided the eyeshadow really needed changing. So it all came off, new eyeliner, right first time this time, slightly deeper eyeshadow, nice black mascara.

Lip gloss? Blusher? Why not?

The lip gloss went on fine, but then it generally does. It's hard for it not to have a good effect. Makes my lips look a lot plumper. More kissable. Always a good look.

Blusher was harder. At least it is for me, anyway. It has to go on slowly, else on me it looks like I've used too much.

It was gone midnight by the time I finished. And even then I wasn't completely convinced I looked perfect. Normally, I supposed I didn't really get chance to think about it. It'd be about ten-thirty or so, and I'd be just finishing with the preliminary attempt, the first draft look, if you know what I mean, and then he'd come barging in, shouting at me to hurry up. And I'd never let him push me out the door that quickly, and he'd tell me I looked fine as I was, but I'd still have to tweak it for a bit longer before I was ready.

He'd never let me near a mirror long enough to spot any more flaws.

It was quarter past twelve. If he was here, surely he'd have told me I looked perfect by now.

I left the flat, making a mental note to myself to make sure I found a club that stayed open till three-thirty. I honestly couldn't believe how much later I let myself leave home without him there to shoo me along.

I wandered round town a bit, looking for a good club, and it was around twenty to one I found one, the Den, with a really chic atmosphere and late closing. There wasn't much of a queue to get in at that time, and once I was in there I got myself a flirtini and spotted a few people I recognised. Not my best mates, I didn't have a clue where they were tonight, but some people I'd met a few times, who seemed nice enough. They seemed quite happy to see me, I got bought a few drinks, I danced with them.

I bought myself a few more drinks. A lot more drinks.

I danced. There were lights. There was a man. A friend of a friend of Leroy's, I think. There was some wetness- someone spilled a drink on me. There was shouting. I- was I? - yes, I was shouting. There were words, angry words. Angry words aimed at me. No, these angry words were me. I was an insult. Why was I an insult? Why was I being insulted?

I suddenly realised that I had no idea where I was or what I was doing. All I knew was that friend-of-a-friend-of-Leroy's was in my face, using me as an insult to myself.

If he had been there, I wouldn't have needed to stay.

If he had been there, I would have been pulled away from that bloke before anything happened.

If he had been there, Bollo wouldn't have had to come down and pick me up, and take me away from the police as I tried to hide my black eye and the blood on my fists.

If he had been there, he would have taken me away from all of that before I got myself into trouble, told me it didn't matter what anyone else said or did, and taken me somewhere else, where drinking would be fun, instead of necessary.

That was the last thing I remember thinking before I passed out in the passenger seat of the van.

_However far away, I will always love you,_

_However long I stay, I will always love you,_

_Whatever words I say, I will always love you._

_I will always love you._

When I woke up, sometime after four in the afternoon, I missed him. I missed him even before I registered my hangover, before I felt the pneumatic drill in my head, before I felt sick, before I felt the soreness over my eye.

I missed him. I wondered when he'd be coming back. It'd only been three days, and I wished he was back already. He probably wouldn't be soon, and I suppose I shouldn't have felt so jealous of his family, because I've got him every day, and they haven't seen him for all those years.

But I still miss him though. I'm waiting for a call all day, my phone switched on, on charge, next to my bed where I lie all day and all night. When it rings, I cry like he's been gone for years. Not when I'm talking to him though. He sounds concerned. I tell him I'm fine; just the last of a hangover. I tell him I've been having a great time without him. In fact, I've found a Shar Pei that likes jazz, but only plays it on really high frequencies so only he can hear it.

He knows I don't mean it though. And I know I don't mean it. I sound so spoiled saying it, but I want him back.

I know he'll never fly me to the moon, but we can try.


	4. Song to Say Goodbye

I write tragedy, okay, it's just what I do, because I have a sick mind. I come up with all that lovely fluffiness in the last songfic, and then I ruin it all by thinking of various horrible ways to pull them apart. Don't hate me.

Or do, it's not something I can have any control over, really, is it.

Erm, so yeah, this song has fascinated me since I first saw the video. So much so that I did a media project on it in Year 12. Part of this story is inspired more by the video, but I don't want to give too much away.

Warning: Apart from the aforementioned tragedy, this fic contains heavy drug abuse and the effects thereof.

Song is owned by Placebo.

Song to Say Goodbye

_You are one of God's mistakes,_

_You crying, tragic waste of skin._

_I'm well aware of how it aches,_

_And you still won't let me in._

You should never have come to exist.

Can't you see what you've put me through?

No, of course you can't. Can you even see anything any more? Can you see anything besides that needle and whatever shit you're loading into it?

Better you'd been choked at birth than left to live and put me through this.

I mean, can't you see that I love you? I fucking love you, you little twat. And you go and repay me that by doing this to me. It hurts me to see you like this. When I can even see you. You hardly even let me see you any more. You just run and lock yourself away and pump yourself full of god knows what and leave me down here worrying about you.

You selfish little bastard.

Sometimes I really do wish you'd never been born.

_Now I'm breaking down your door_

_To try and save your swollen face,_

_Though I don't like you any more,_

_You lying, trying waste of space._

I've pounded the door, and there's no response. It's locked, so I know you're in there.

Vince, open the door, open the fucking door!

You're making me worry about you.

You come back, and you haven't even left the flat for days, and you come back with another black eye, and I'm wondering where the hell this one came from. Did you go to the dealer without the money you owe him? Did you try to steal something? Were you mugged; some sick twisted freak saw an addict as just another easy target? Or maybe you just walked into a lamppost again looking at your own bones in a window.

And now you're doing this.

Honestly, if you'd answered, told me to fuck off like you always do, I would have. I'd have left you locked in there to die like the human trash you are.

But you haven't. You won't answer or you can't answer, and that means there's something wrong, so I have to smash my way in to find out what the hell you've done to yourself this time.

If you were conscious, I'd let you die.

_Before our innocence was lost,_

_You were always one of those_

_Blessed with lucky sevens_

_And a voice that made me cry._

Oh God.

You…

No!

How the fuck could this happen to you, of all people? How can it be you down there? That emaciated skeleton, twisted on your back surrounded by needles, barely breathing. If I didn't know it was you, I wouldn't have believed it.

God, you used to be so beautiful. And look at you now. If you knew what you were doing, you'd have hated what you've done to yourself.

You were always pale, the Shoreditch Vampire, and now you look like you need more blood in you. Look at you; you're grey. You were always skinny too. In fact, you weren't even always that skinny, when I first met you. Jesus, you're like a parody of yourself. You're just a skeleton with that hideous grey skin stretched over you. I remember how that t-shirt used to hug your figure so nicely, how happy you were when you found it, and now it's hanging off you, limp as you are. You're a mess. You're a tragic, wasted mess.

Are you awake? Are you looking at me? Can you see me, Vince?

All I can see is those bug-eyes fixed on me. How in the hell did they get even bigger? Your face is so bony now, they look like they're popping out of it. I think they're going to make me sick. So huge. They're so dry. My god, are you even remembering to blink?

But under that, they're still the same eyes. Still the same blue, just they look darker now, with your pupils so dilated. Still the same blue. Still the same man underneath. Just with a broken mind.

God, are you reaching up to me? I'm here, don't worry, I'm here. That little cry, that cracked, broken whine. Was that you? How can that be you? You used to sing, Vince, remember that? You had a beautiful voice. You could make people jump for joy, or forget everything they'd ever known. You could bring them to tears.

You had everything. Why did you go and give it up?

_You were Mother Nature's son,_

_Someone to whom I could relate._

Do you know why I sought out you, instantly? I know everyone goes for you first, but not for the reason I did. They come to you, or they came to you, no one comes any more, because you were that urban legend, Vince Noir, Rock and Roll Star. They thought association with you would make them look better. I never cared about that. I mean, look at me- do I look like someone who cares about that?

No, I saw something else in you. Something you tried to cover up. And maybe you covered it up because it was something I liked. Because you were ashamed of me. Or maybe it was because you wanted to keep it just for me. I still tell myself that sometimes, you know, when I'm feeling like there might still be a chance for us.

I always… I saw the beauty in this world, you know. I was fascinated with it. And so were you. I could tell as soon as I saw you. We were thinking the same things; we just had different ways of showing it. I was open about it, always trying to understand, to analyse, to learn. And you were just happy to appreciate, just as happy up a tree as you were under a neon light, just as admiring of birdsong as those painful electro beats. You told me you weren't, but you were. I know you were. We were two sides of the same coin, you and me. Opposite ends of the same curve.

And I know you're still in there somewhere. Wake up, why won't you bloody wake up? I know you're still there, just say something, look at me, anything.

That's it, reach for me, baby, reach for me. Shit, you know I didn't mean it. I could never mean that.

I don't want you to die, Vince.

_Now I'm trying to wake you up,_

_To pull you from the liquid sky,_

'_Cause if I don't we'll both end up_

_With just your song to say goodbye._

No, no, don't go limp! You stay awake, hang in there, I'm not having you leaving me just yet.

Wake up, you stupid fucking idiot!

Yeah, yeah, I'm shaking you. That hurt? Well good, it'll keep you awake. If you fall asleep now, god knows what might happen to you. I'm not risking that, you hear me! I am not letting this happen!

Can you breathe? Shit, you can't breathe. Come on, turn over. How can someone so light be unable to hold up their own weight? Jesus, you're in worse shape than I thought. You know what I'm gonna do now? I'm gonna give you a smack, as hard as you fucking deserve, right there between your shoulder blades. And it'll hurt you, but that's good, because you look like you need reminding that you're still alive.

Let it out, let it out, it's disgusting and it stinks, but at least it's not blocking your airways any more. That it? Come on, get away from it; I don't want you getting any more messed up than you already are.

That's it, little man, just breathe. Hold onto me, keep yourself upright, and breathe. Jesus, you feel like I'm holding a twig.

You need help, you know. You've got yourself into a really bad situation here, and you need help to get out of it. You can't see the damage you've done to yourself, but I can. It's a horrible sight. You stupid child, you need help.

_My oh my,_

_A song to say goodbye._

You look disturbing, there. The seat dwarfs you, and the road's tossing you around like a little rag doll. You look like you've already died once. But there's something else, now that I've let you fall asleep. You're peaceful, even if you look disgusting. You're almost cute.

I'm so sorry I had to do this. I had no choice, little one, I hope you understand that. I can't cope with you any more.

Come on, wake up. You're here. Don't move, I'll get you out. Look at you, I'm practically carrying you. You can't even walk on your own any more.

How could I have let you get into this state? It won't happen again, I promise. You deserve the best, and nothing but. And you'll get it. I just can't handle it.

Here, take him. Please, be careful with him, he can hardly stand.

Oh, god, baby, please don't think badly of me for this. You know I can't handle it. I know I'll hear your whimpering and I'll feel your fingers as you try to keep me back, but you know I can't handle it.

You know I can't stay.


	5. Camera

The first explicitly slashy story of the collection. Yay. And more internal Howard POV. This is actually probably a lot closer to canon than I tend to write him. What can I say, it's honestly far more Boosh love story than Emily's Barratt Fantasies.

I've actually had most of this done for a fair while, it just took a metaphorical kick to get me to finish the last bit.

The next one of these will definitely be a request for 'Truly, Madly, Deeply' which someone, I think it was Steph, gave me an age ago.

I still haven't got my act together with the reviews. If I'm honest, I've been reluctant to even look at how much I still have unread. I'm thinking, perhaps I should give up on my desire to read everything, because it's just gonna stress me out trying, if I'm honest, and just start again, as it were, and start with what appeals to me.

I will seriously try and get my act together somehow tho.

In the meantime, please enjoy the songfic.

Song is owned by the Editors.

Warning: some strong language.

Camera

_Keep close to me now,  
__I'll be your guide._

All I can hear in the dim almost-darkness is my own heartbeat. It's resonating against each wall, echoing through the closed-in space, always present, one with the gloom.

But these walls are so thin…

"Shh," you say, and your voice brings me back to now, to here, and the echo is now just a dim drum in the back of my mind. Your hand is on my cheek and you're looking up to me with your face all concern. That dim light behind me is glinting on your eyes. I like being able to see your eyes. They're comforting.

I realise I'm shaking, quivering like a frightened child in your arms, and it doesn't seem right that you should be the smaller one. I'm scared, the dynamic is all wrong. I should be smaller; I need you to protect me.

You rub a hand down my side, all soft and slow, and I'm still.

Your eyes lock on mine again, and my breath hitches in my throat. You wait, and I calm, and that gives you consent. You move up, slow, in case I want to stop, and you meet me. Your lips are soft, they're like velvet; they're almost not there. And they move so gently, they're almost pulsating.

And I realise I should be moving. Doing something. I open my mouth a little, and my heart does a little leap when my lips mesh perfectly with yours. This is it! This is the moment!

You move, and I do my best to follow. I think I'm doing alright. I'm following you, we're meshing. It feels right.

And then a tiny, ticking presence- your tongue, peeking out to nudge my lip. I know what it wants. I know all too well what it wants. And I want what it wants, I really do, I just…

I just…

I open. Your tongue slips inside. It's moving, wriggling, just slowly. It stops, and I realise I've gone tense. All too aware of that drumming getting louder, I move my tongue against yours, and you loosen and move again with me. Around, above, around, underneath, to the side. Same place at once- was I meant to do that? You don't seem to have noticed. I'll ignore it.

I suddenly notice that I can feel everything, like pins and needles. I'm tingling where your hands are on me. And your hands are on me. I can feel them tingling. One on my cheek, one on my side. They're holding, rubbing and stroking, and what are mine doing? They're not doing anything. They're just there, both on your back, one just under your shoulders, the other lower. I squeeze a little, and the way you press into me sends shockwaves through me that almost make me scream.

And you've pulled away now. Your hands are still where they were, still caressing, and it still tingles but not so much. Nowhere near as much.

"You alright?" you whisper, your thumb tracing my cheek like a ghost of itself, those glowing eyes full of comfort again.

I'm trying to speak but I can't, until eventually I manage to choke 'yes'.

You wait a moment as I show you no resistance, and then you lean up again. Your hand moves from my side to the small of my back, and I can't help but shudder. You don't stop. The fingers of your other hand are playing with my hair.

My fingers twitch a little. I'll be brave. I move my right hand down. You make that noise. It's quiet and fast, a little moan. Is that good?

Your behind, it's… it's taboo. It's forbidden. It's new, unchartered territory. It feels wrong to have my hand there like that. Like it's… not allowed. It's bad.

"Mmm… Mm, that's good…"

Or it isn't.

If I didn't have your hands steadying me, I'd be shaking as I rub it. My hand is moving so slowly. I'm trying to make it move faster, but it won't.

You're pushing back, away from me. Why? What am I doing wrong?

Or… are you pushing into me? Into my hand? Is that what you're doing? Yes, that's what you're doing. You want more.

I squeeze a little tighter, pressing the tips my fingers in. You're making that sound again. It must be a good thing. Your other hand is tightening on my back, squeezing me and pulling me in. You're pulling me in towards you. Into you.

I stumble. I fall forward and as I catch you I realise both my hands are clutching at your backside. My head is pulled forward to another one of those moans, and you're scratching and clawing and pulling me down, and my hands are tightening, both of them, pressing at your round bum, and god, oh god, it's so firm and plump and… beautiful! My head is forced forward; I'm almost looking straight down. You're pulling me down, holding me down, pushing up into me, your lips tight on mine, your tongue forcing supremacy, and mine giving all it can in return…

_Once we have black hearts,  
__Then love dies._

"Vince! Howard!"

You pull away all too suddenly and leave me in such a vacuum that I almost fall.

"Shit," you mutter, eyes on the door. You turn to me, and all of that something in your eyes that was just for me has gone from them now. "I'll go out first. You wait five minutes and come when it feels right."

With that you're gone. The bright light of day invades the room and makes me blink. There's water in my eyes.

"Thank God you're back!" you cry, your voice all loud and cocky and assured again. "You wouldn't believe what he was having me do. He was trying to make me help him stocktake."

Naboo's voice is quiet and strained as it comes through the closed door. "Howard! Don't trust Vince with the stocktaking; you know he makes it up when he gets bored."

"Oh do you?" I call back, stern and annoyed. Aggravated because you had to go. "I'll have to have words with you about that, little man."

Words in the stockroom when no one's listening. Words given to open mouths. Silent words.

Made up numbers. The numbers we both made up to disguise what really happened.

A shrill ring pierces the air in the shop as I emerge from the stock room, and I see Naboo picking up one of the phones behind the counter.

"Hello, Nabootique," he says. He listens for a while, then gives you the smallest of death-stares. Covering the receiver with his hand, his whispers to you; "Vince, did you give someone the business number?"

Your cheeks give the impression that they're flushing, but they don't, and your mouth flickers into that awkward smile that isn't really awkward. "Might have done," you answer, slowly enough to show your shameless guilt, one foot turning inwards just slightly.

Naboo sighs. "It's for you."

He retreats upstairs, and I go back into the stock room to check numbers and amounts, and resist the urge just to make it all up, like we have done before. I can hear you talking. I can't quite make out your words, but you're using that light, bouncy tone, and I can hear you laughing. I carry on.

_If we run, they'll look in the back room,  
__Where we hide all of our feelings._

I've managed a few more items, and you've been quiet for a while now, and I can't shut myself in here any longer. I come out, and you're leaning against the counter, just staring, idly playing with a paperclip that must have escaped from Stationary Village.

You look up at me and smile. "I've got a date tonight," you tell me, a little swagger just noticeable in the way your hips shift as you straighten up.

I don't smile. I just try to look inconvenienced. "Who with?"

"You know Hannah, who works in the petrol station at Tesco's? The one with the purple highlights?"

I think… Yes, I have seen her, around town. She's served me a few times when I was filling up the van.

"She wants to take me out to that new Chinese place, then we're probably just gonna hit the town." You let out a little sigh. "Should be fun."

In one hot moment, I'm right close to you. My hand is grasping your waist and yours has flown up to hold it.

"Do you think?" I ask, as my head flicks suddenly to the door.

Your head strains to turn as you move your gaze to the stairs. "No," you answer. "Not now. Not while he's here."

_I'll keep your eyes wide open tonight._

My eyes open much wider than usual anyway as the words slip like liquid butter down my ear. My breath hitches in my throat, and in a moment you're out the door and gone.

You turn out of sight. My heart pumps, and my brain tells me, yells at me, to run to the window and watch you go.

But I can't. I hold back.

What did you mean?

My heart is pounding again. The drums are back, banging and banging through the room. So loud. And this is a public room. Anyone could just walk in.

What can you have meant?

You couldn't. You can't. It's just… it isn't… you can't.

You always stay. It's what's done. What's expected. You always stay.

She's a beautiful girl with purple highlights and nice clothes and a fun-loving personality and a carefree lifestyle, and she fancies you like I don't know what. Why wouldn't you stay?

No, no, you couldn't have meant it. You have to stay.

What would people think if you didn't stay?

_Keep the car on the road now.  
__Feel love bite._

12:37am. I can't sleep. So I haven't been trying.

The TV is rubbish. BBC4 documentaries. Films I've never heard of. American dramas. Live coverage of Big Brother. Interactive quizzes that no one's won yet. Rubbish.

Hot milk. Beer. Useless.

I tried to read. Couldn't concentrate.

Put on some soft jazz. Just kept me more awake.

Seventeen strides from one side of the room to the other. It's depressing that I know this, but I can't even sit still.

The TV remote makes my fingers sore. It's not even pointed at the TV, but my fingers itch if they don't press the buttons.

Footsteps.

And you're here. Home. Alone.

_Look at us through the lens of a camera.  
__Does it remove all of our pain?_

"Heya. What you doing still up?"

You sound so much quieter than usual. Like you're a little tired, perhaps.

"Couldn't sleep. What are you doing back?"

You shrug. Then you walk forward and lean on me, sagging against my side. You turn your head so that your temple and cheekbone are pressed against my shoulder, and look up at me.

You aren't smiling. I curl my arm around your waist, and take your shoulder with my other hand.

You look up, I look down.

And our lips touch for the briefest of moments, just quick and soft, and when I pull back you're smiling a little.

There's a light pressure from your hand on the small of my back, and you walk forward, guiding me to follow.

To your bedroom.

I freeze. My heart stops.

You stop, and you turn and press yourself to me, your arms around my waist, your face buried in my chest. And you look up again.

"We don't have to." You're almost whispering. "If you don't want to."

I don't even move, but you feel it. You press your head into my chest again.

"Just… please stay with me. Please. We can just…"

There's no need to finish. My arms are around you, and yours tighten around me. We're still connected as I follow you to the bedroom.

I let go and you close the door, and as you look at me, you press your lips together in a half-smile, like a nervous, shy schoolgirl.

You sit down. Take off your boots. Your socks. Your shirt. Stand up. Undo your belt. Lower your jeans. That round, black-clad derriere peeks out, tempting, and you turn your head and you're smiling, fully now, still a little bashful, but now wide and cheeky.

You take your jeans the rest of the way down, pull back the covers and lie, sprawled out and giggling softly, on your front in the wide bed. You're watching me, and I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I sit down, still fully clothed, and you giggle a little louder.

Your eyes push me back up, and I strip to my pants as quickly as I can. I lie in with you, and you pull the covers back over us both, and snuggle in a little closer. Your bare skin against my skin is warm, and the heat and the softness of your hands as they run over me lulls me. I envelop you in my arms, and you settle and still. You're smiling again. It isn't shy or nervous any more. It's wide and contented. In fact, it's downright mischievous. You bump my nose with your forehead, and look up at me. Our lips meet again, and pull away, and in a moment you're asleep.

It still seems strange, how much smaller you really are than me. Only now that I've got you here, asleep in my arms, I think I might like it.

_If we run, they'll look in the back room,  
__Where we hide all of our secrets._

Another day standing behind the counter in an empty shop, with nothing to do. No one comes in, nothing gets sold. The sun creeps across the sky, but you can't see it because of the overcast weather. The cockroaches run into their holes under the skirting board.

It's hard to pretend today. You're only a foot away from me, but you're too far away. You're bored and nonchalant, but I can feel you straining. The strain is pulling at me, too, like an iron core drawn towards you, so strong that I almost fall over sideways, but I catch myself on the counter.

Your smile almost betrays you, until the phone rings again. You glance back, then fix your eyes hard on the counter, a still, unfaltering glare.

It rings.

And it rings.

And it rings.

Then it stops. You breathe again.

I bring my hand out towards you. Then stop. I look over and realise you saw me. Your smile does betray you, this time.

The door to the stock room catches in my eye, and I know you noticed. You shake your head.

I stare back at the empty doorway. It's hard to pretend today.

The phone rings again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can just see you shudder.

Naboo walks through from the flat. "You gonna get that?"

I can see you stiffen. I almost wonder if you've gone a little paler. "No…"

"Why not?"

"It might be… a stalker."

"You being stalked?"

"A little bit. Sort of."

Naboo is coming closer, coming back behind the counter. "I'll deal with it."

I don't think I've ever seen anything move so fast as you trying to dive in front of that phone. "It's alright. It probably isn't very important anyway."

"Vince, let me get to the phone."

His voice is still quiet, but it's hard and insistent. I'm trembling ever so slightly, I notice, at the thought that he might lose his temper.

"It won't-"

"Vince."

The shop quiets. Relief drops through me like hot tea down my gullet.

"Doesn't matter now," you say. "They hung up."

Naboo glares and turns back to the stairs. I can't help but stretch my face into a smile.

He hasn't gone up two steps when the phone rings again. He doesn't even seem to have moved before he's back down here again, shoving you aside and pressing the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Nabootique… Yeah, who is this? ... Who are you? ... He is working, you know… He did what? … So why don't you call his phone? … It's never usually switched off… Alright, I'll put him on."

The look on his face is pure fury as he passes the phone to you. "Someone called Hannah," he says. "Wants to know where you disappeared off to last night, and won't take no for an answer."

The phone is shaking in your hand as you lift it to your ear. Your voice wavers in a way I have never heard before, and I hope I never will again.

"Hi Hannah."

From the receiver, I can hear a faint buzz, angry and incessant like a fly against a window. It's fast and it's furious and it won't let up.

"I know, I- I'm… look, I'm sorry, alright! Hannah, I- Hannah… I'm… will you let me speak?"

For a split second, the room is silent. The buzz speaks more softly.

"I… I'm sorry, I felt ill." Buzz. "I couldn't find you. I'd have told you if I could find you." Buzz. "Well it came on really suddenly, while I was in the toilet." Buzz. "I don't know what it was, it just came." Buzz. Silence.

Buzz.

Buzz.

The buzz is shouting again. Shouting something that distinctly sounds like 'Vince'.

"No…"

Your voice is so high and choked that I can hold myself back any more. My arms are around your waist and my face is nuzzled in your hair. I can just see the glint of a tear running down your cheek.

"Yes," you say. "Yes. There is someone else."

The buzz. It's faint.

"Yes. It's him."

There's a silence again. Just still, stale silence. Then the buzz begins again.

"I'm sorry," you repeat, almost a whisper now. "I'm sorry."

You break away and the phone is down.

_You fall from grace, you fall with such grace._

I stand still and hold you, and you lean back on me as Naboo berates us and tells us that if anyone comes into his shop and starts causing any trouble, we're responsible. You're standing stock still, upright and straight like you're made of stone, and just leaning back, ever so slightly, your soft flesh yielding gently to my touch. You feel so tense. I rub just a little with my fingers, and I can feel your breathing even out.

He leaves, shutting the door to the flat much more heavily than usual. A long breath escapes you, and you turn to me. You look up at me for a second and you smile, then you laugh, just weakly, but you mean it, and that laugh is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

And we wait.

She comes, eventually. Not Hannah, but her friend, who is short and petite with dark blonde curls and pretty brown eyes, but who has a face like thunder and can shout to rival Brian Blessed.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, shit-for-brains? How can you fucking do that to her? She loves you- you know that, you twat? You know how long it took her to work up the fucking courage to ask you out? Well it took her weeks! And when you said yes, she was over the fucking moon! She was so excited, she called me up and she fucking _screamed_! She had me round for hours picking out her outfit, and she was bouncing off the walls, she was so fucking excited! You know what you've done to her now? She's fucking _crying_ now! You hear me? She's _crying_! _You_ made her cry! You evil bastard, she's too good for you! How could you even think of doing that to her? She's madly in love with you, and you go and leave her for… for _that_!"

You've just been standing there, all this time, stock still, your eyes almost closed, taking it.

She stops shouting, her arm still raised, finger pointing straight at me. You drop your head, mouth tightly shut, not a sound. Nothing moves. Quiet. Hot. Frozen.

And then you turn, just a little, your knuckles just touching my waist, and turn your head up. Your blue eyes are so pale with fear, and they meet mine for just a second before they close.

_I just close my eyes as you walk out._

Our lips touch for just that one moment, lingering like a film on pause, then I hear the door close and you're gone.


End file.
